


lust like remembrance

by queenlua



Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: Soen no Kiseki/Akatsuki no Megami | Fire Emblem Path of Radiance/Radiant Dawn
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-26
Updated: 2013-02-26
Packaged: 2017-12-03 14:19:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,046
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/699171
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/queenlua/pseuds/queenlua
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He's blustering; he's deciding whether it'd be more satisfying to kill or kiss Zihark, right then, so when he finally grabs Zihark by the shoulder and pulls him in for the kiss, it's anything but neat.</p>
            </blockquote>





	lust like remembrance

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to [rethira](http://archiveofourown.org/users/rethira) for beating.

Shinon's memory of the night before is splotchy.  He remembers the beginning of it clearly—he'd found Gatrie and asked the knight to hand over whatever liquor he had on him; when Gatrie balked, pointing out that they were due to march early in the morning, Shinon repeated the request, _loudly_ , and the pair of them split a flask of gin that Gatrie had ferreted away.  Shinon drank fast, and more than his share.  He'd come there just after overhearing some twit in the army talking about Ike, about all the shit that had happened while Shinon had been gone—the _victories_ , the _princess_ , the goddamn _noble title_ —and well it all was just an un-fucking-pleasant reminder of his current circumstances, and he'd decided he needed a very stiff drink, or ten, right then.

While they drank Gatrie kept trying to fucking _talk_ —first he asked Shinon if something was wrong, which just pissed Shinon off more—then he started on about the latest broad he was going all addlebrained over, which was at least bearable.  At some point Shinon had ditched the tent, ditched Gatrie, and started wandering the camp to see if there was anyone around to amuse him.  Only then he'd passed by the tent of that snot-nosed runt of a commander, Little Lord Ike, and he decided just then that he'd give the commander an earful.  A loud earful.  What exactly had he said?  Couldn't remember the details; he'd gotten sick then—and someone had wound up dragging him off, he remembered that, some skinny pretty-boy.  Shinon would've protested, would've shoved off for his own damn tent, but walking was hard and he still felt queasy—probably he threw up again—and he guessed at some point he'd knocked off here, face-first on this bedroll.

And now that pretty-boy is sitting beside him.

He's sitting with his back to Shinon; he's fooling with a sword or something, polishing it.  But he perks his head when he hears Shinon grunt and roll onto his side: "You're awake?"  Obligingly, pretty-boy turns and pulls a waterskin out of a satchel beside him and holds it in front of Shinon, smiling.

Shinon is not smiling.  Who the hell even is this guy? 

"Fuck you," Shinon growls, slapping the waterskin away even though he's fucking parched.  He gets to his feet, walks—no, staggers—out of the tent.  Pretty-boy reaches out, placing a light hand on his shoulder— _hey, you can lie down for a bit_ —but Shinon growls something and shrugs the hand away and pulls the tent-flaps to the side.  Goddamn it's too bright out and it's the kind of hangover where everything aches; this morning's march is going to be hell. 

* * *

It'd be nice and easy to just forget about pretty-boy altogether except he keeps popping up all over the damn place.  They've been assigned to the same unit, for starters, which means every time they're on the battlefield, _he's_ there too.  That part's not too bad; pretty-boy knows how to handle himself with a sword, and the more competent the troops around Shinon are, the less likely that he winds up as crow's food by morning. 

But then pretty-boy keeps acting all chummy with him.  He calls him "Shinon" even though Shinon knows he sure as hell never introduced himself.  When Shinon sneers and calls him "pretty-boy," he keeps correcting him—Zihark—a stupid name.  Also, a Daeinish name—Shinon only knows because he grew up there—and that gives him pause, because everyone knows Daein's military is a better deal the mercenary work, if you can swing it.  Shinon had only left in the first place because Greil had talked him into it—only got dragged away again because of Greil’s snot-nosed son—but he knows _this_ guy's skilled enough to make it in the army so why the hell is he out here? 

Pretty-boy's pretty, he guesses, but that's all.

Prissy, though.  Once Shinon was telling off some subhuman bitch for getting in the way of where he was walking, and the pretty-boy had come out of nowhere and cut in: "Shinon, ease up now, won't you?"

What was _with_ all these goddamn humans getting chummy with half-breeds?  He could've expected that from Ike, daft as he was, but he'd never taken this fellow to be a fool.

They locked eyes.  After a moment Shinon spat at Zihark's feet, gave the subhuman a low glare, and walked away.

* * *

It'd be nice if they could march through some _real_ cities, for a change, rather than this circuitous little mountainside route Ike's got them trampling along toward Nevassa; then Shinon wouldn't have to drink this watered-down piss that passes for liquor in the Daein countryside.

But still, liquor's liquor, even if every sip damn near makes him gag.  The town they're camped outside tonight is 'least big enough to have a real tavern, and the troops surge to fill it.  Bunch of lightweights, though, that's what most of them are, and start heading or stumbling or staggering back around midnight.  Gatrie knocks off early, too, and Shinon somehow manages to piss off the pretty thing he's talking to, so he's alone when he's staggering back to camp.  That's when he sees him—sitting by the dying embers of the fire, alone, stone-cold sober from the looks of it—pretty-boy.  Zihark.

 "S'you," Shinon snickers, "What're y' doin' out here, haven't you got some half-breed to stick up for?"

For a bare moment Zihark looks startled, and Shinon likes that; he stalks closer and stands too close.  Zihark's brow is cooly arched as he meets Shinon's eyes.  "Is this a habit of yours?"

"Is what?"

Zihark just looks at him, like _he's_ supposed to know what the hell he's talking about.  Does he look like a goddamn mind reader?  "Don't give me that look," Shinon snaps, "you're just 's fucked up as I am.  I see it.  You act all calm and chummy but all sellswords are the same, 'n' you're just runnin' I bet—"

He's blustering; he's deciding whether it'd be more satisfying to kill or kiss Zihark, right then, so when he finally grabs Zihark by the shoulder and pulls him in for the kiss, it's anything but neat; for a second their teeth clack, then he finds Zihark's lips and kisses sloppily, greedily.  Pretty boy's got the decency to be surprised by _that_ , at least, scooting backward where he's sitting and going stiff when Shinon reaches around to grab Zihark's waist.  It's a bit less satisfying in that pretty boy seems taken with the idea quick, too quick, and tilts his head back to better accommodate his kissing, and slides a leg slowly around Shinon's.

But now that he's started Shinon's not stopping; he's got Zihark by the waist, and the other hand grabs his hair and pulls his head back so he can kiss Zihark's neck as he's pressing his chest down against Zihark's; Zihark's slipped off the log he was sitting on and now has his back pressed up against it.  Shinon would do it right there, but there's a moment where they both gasp at once and Zihark slips backward and tugs Shinon's shoulder, and Shinon remembers that they're right here in the open and probably he should at least pretend at decency, hard as that is to do with him so drunk and Zihark's hot breath in his ear.

He clutches Zihark tightly around the waist and pulls him up and close and they stumble together, Shinon leading.

What he remembers of the night later is splotchy—the stink of sweat and spit and sex heavy in smothering airless humidity of the tent—a startled gasp, fingers pressing hard and trailing down his spine—and pretty-boy moaning beneath him, that he remembers best, how heavy and full that had sounded in the nothingness of the night.

* * *

The next morning Shinon wakes alone, though there's a waterskin left close to where he lay.

When the troops join together and start marching, he sees Zihark nearby, and Zihark's not acting any differently, though Shinon's satisfied to see that when the wind sweeps Zihark's hair, the faint red splotches from last night are visible on his neck.

* * *

 He wasn't planning to tangle with Zihark again.  Pretty but not _that_ pretty, and not his usual type, and he doesn't want him getting any ideas, besides.  But Zihark has a way of popping up all over the damn place, worming under his skin for no damn good reason.

Like here in Olina.  Shinon shrugs off to walk the town—it's a ghost town, now, with the war ploughing through here, and never had been much to begin with.  He looks at the storefronts, the weathered paint, the shards of a smashed glass jar on the side of the road.  Looks at the blacksmith's old shop, the pasture where Ellis's cattle grazed.

"Do you know this town?"

Shinon freezes, because he _does_ , and also because he hadn't known that Zihark was behind him—how long had he been there? 

Zihark's glancing both ways, studying the buildings with the eyes of a curious, practiced tourist, striding up to Shinon's side easy as anything.  "I was born not far from here, you know." 

"Y'following me or something?" Shinon asks crossly.

 "No.  Just thought I'd take a look around the old place."

"Haven't you got that mangy half-breed to knock around with?" Shinon hisses.  And then: "Can't believe you're from _Daein_ and you're some stinking laguz lover."

The words are cutting and Zihark's expression flickers for a moment; Shinon thinks maybe he touched a nerve there, and pretty-boy will bugger off for good, and good riddance.  But a moment later Zihark's expression is level again, and the corners of his lips are curled up like a taunt. 

Almost as if to ask: _Jealous?_

And Shinon can't stand that smirk so he decides to wipe it off the only way he knows how, and before long they're tangled together again and they're hauling into one of those abandoned ghost-shacks and Shinon can't fumble for Zihark's belt-buckle fast enough, the air in the building is thick with dust and debris and Zihark's coughing but Shinon ignores him, already grasping for Zihark's cock.

—so it's that way in Olina, and it's that way in the next town, too, and in the tents back at camp—normally when Shinon's been drinking but sometimes not, and Zihark, Zihark never drinks—and even on the outskirts of Melior, when the whole damn war is nearing its end, still he staggers into Zihark's tent, hungry and wanting and groping through the darkness, for the warmth where flesh meets flesh.

* * *

Then there's a night, the last night, when Zihark comes to him.

Shinon's annoyed, first, because he was just about nodding off when the tent-flaps got wrenched open, and second, because he realizes it's Zihark and that doesn't make sense at all.  He's always gone to Zihark, never the other way around.  He's about to tell Zihark to fuck off, that whatever preachy bit he's got now can wait until morning, but then Zihark says "quiet" and leans over him, sliding one hand lightly around the base of Shinon's neck and the other onto the curve of his hip.  He's propping himself up with his elbows, placed on either side of Shinon's shoulders, and his knees, straddled around Shinon's—crouched above him, supple and strong, tigerlike.

The tent's only lantern is still on, glowing softly by Zihark's face.  Shinon meets Zihark’s eyes—and he thinks maybe he's never really looked at those eyes before, because there's a gleam in them, a sword-edged steeliness and loneliness that's chilling, a gleam that reminds him of what it was like to feel a goddamn thing, before Greil died and before the mercenaries went to shit and even before he'd left Daein, maybe, back when he'd been some scrappy hotshot sniper with dreams that began and ended with making it big.

Zihark runs his fingers under Shinon's chin, a moment's cool consideration, before he smiles and sinks a hand into Shinon's hair, gripping his scalp, and with his other hand he flips Shinon onto his stomach and begins with a cool, biting kiss on the back of his neck.


End file.
